side of her face
was pale and unblemished. The right cheek was smashed almost beyond
recognition. Red shards of brick stuck to the edges of the wound, he noticed,
his stomach churning. Her neck was a mass of bruises, and her white, short
sleeved cashmere sweater was smeared with congealed blood. He looked away and
took several deep breaths.
After a respectful pause, he covered her face again and
began to inspect the room. The walls and ceiling were covered with thick,
perforated tiles, only partially hidden by crimson velvet drapery. A cast iron
candelabrum stood in each corner, and a block and tackle dangled limply from a
substantial beam overhead. Behind an ornamental screen at one end of the room
was a red velvet chaise longue, covered with a semi-transparent polythene
sheet. Opposite was an upright bentwood chair, covered in a thick layer of
dust.
Next to the screen was a large rosewood wardrobe. Chase
opened it and found a selection of leather and PVC clothes hanging inside,
together with a long ermine coat. A collection of viciously high-heeled boots
and shoes shared the base of the wardrobe with a metal toolbox and two large
black cardboard boxes. A leather bullwhip, a riding crop, and a fraying cane
hung from the hook on the inside of one door.
Chase lifted the first cardboard box out and lifted the lid.
It contained a tangle of stockings, bras, suspender belts, and knickers, of
varying degrees of laciness, but all deepest black. The second box seemed to
contain only black tissue paper, but when he separated it he found two corsets,
one in black satin, the other in red patent leather, but both steel-ribbed and
unyielding. How did she manage to lace them up by herself? he wondered,
replacing the lid and setting the two boxes aside. He lifted the toolbox out of
the wardrobe, laid it on top of a pile of file boxes, and flipped the catches
open. Inside were the tools of My Lady’s trade, the unguents and the
implements, the purpose of some of which Chase could only guess.
He replaced the toolbox and the boxes in the wardrobe,
closed the doors, and returned to the entrance hall. Blackaby and Greenaway
broke off chatting as he emerged, but not before he caught the conspiratorial
smile on her face.
“So what happened here, do you think, Andrea,” he asked.
“Any sign of a struggle?”
She shook her head. “No,” she replied. “Looks as though she
answered the door, the caller smashed her in the face with a brick, then
dragged her in there and strangled her.”
“And you know all this because...?”
“There’s blood on the doormat, and a trail of blood leading
from the front door into the, er, bedroom.”
“And the brick?”
“Constable Blackaby found it.”
“When he went outside to puke!” added Neville, grinning.
“You OK, Blackaby?” asked Chase.
“Yes, thanks,” he sighed. “You never really get used to it,
do you, Sir?”
Chase shook his head wearily. “Where is it now?” he asked.
“The brick, I mean.”
“Still out there,” Blackaby replied. “We didn’t touch it. Do
you want me to bag it for you?”
“No thanks. Let’s leave it for Scene of Crime. Where the
hell are they, anyway?”
“I called them right after I rang you, Sir. They should be
here any moment.”
“Good.” Chase turned back to Andrea Greenaway. “Could it
have been a crime of passion, do you think?”
“Maybe. That blow to her face would have taken some
strength. And it doesn’t look like a professional job, that’s for sure.”
“How do you mean?”
Greenaway shrugged. “Well, the bruising around the neck
looks pretty clumsy, for one thing. If she hadn’t been handcuffed to the bed
she could probably have got up and walked away.”
“Being smashed in the face with a brick probably didn’t
help, either.”
She nodded gravely. “True, Al. Quite true.”
Chase turned back to Blackaby. “Can you get those cuffs off
her, please,” he asked.
“What about Scene of Crime?” Blackaby
was pale and unblemished. The right cheek was smashed almost beyond
recognition. Red shards of brick stuck to the edges of the wound, he noticed,
his stomach churning. Her neck was a mass of bruises, and her white, short
sleeved cashmere sweater was smeared with congealed blood. He looked away and
took several deep breaths.
After a respectful pause, he covered her face again and
began to inspect the room. The walls and ceiling were covered with thick,
perforated tiles, only partially hidden by crimson velvet drapery. A cast iron
candelabrum stood in each corner, and a block and tackle dangled limply from a
substantial beam overhead. Behind an ornamental screen at one end of the room
was a red velvet chaise longue, covered with a semi-transparent polythene
sheet. Opposite was an upright bentwood chair, covered in a thick layer of
dust.
Next to the screen was a large rosewood wardrobe. Chase
opened it and found a selection of leather and PVC clothes hanging inside,
together with a long ermine coat. A collection of viciously high-heeled boots
and shoes shared the base of the wardrobe with a metal toolbox and two large
black cardboard boxes. A leather bullwhip, a riding crop, and a fraying cane
hung from the hook on the inside of one door.
Chase lifted the first cardboard box out and lifted the lid.
It contained a tangle of stockings, bras, suspender belts, and knickers, of
varying degrees of laciness, but all deepest black. The second box seemed to
contain only black tissue paper, but when he separated it he found two corsets,
one in black satin, the other in red patent leather, but both steel-ribbed and
unyielding. How did she manage to lace them up by herself? he wondered,
replacing the lid and setting the two boxes aside. He lifted the toolbox out of
the wardrobe, laid it on top of a pile of file boxes, and flipped the catches
open. Inside were the tools of My Lady’s trade, the unguents and the
implements, the purpose of some of which Chase could only guess.
He replaced the toolbox and the boxes in the wardrobe,
closed the doors, and returned to the entrance hall. Blackaby and Greenaway
broke off chatting as he emerged, but not before he caught the conspiratorial
smile on her face.
“So what happened here, do you think, Andrea,” he asked.
“Any sign of a struggle?”
She shook her head. “No,” she replied. “Looks as though she
answered the door, the caller smashed her in the face with a brick, then
dragged her in there and strangled her.”
“And you know all this because...?”
“There’s blood on the doormat, and a trail of blood leading
from the front door into the, er, bedroom.”
“And the brick?”
“Constable Blackaby found it.”
“When he went outside to puke!” added Neville, grinning.
“You OK, Blackaby?” asked Chase.
“Yes, thanks,” he sighed. “You never really get used to it,
do you, Sir?”
Chase shook his head wearily. “Where is it now?” he asked.
“The brick, I mean.”
“Still out there,” Blackaby replied. “We didn’t touch it. Do
you want me to bag it for you?”
“No thanks. Let’s leave it for Scene of Crime. Where the
hell are they, anyway?”
“I called them right after I rang you, Sir. They should be
here any moment.”
“Good.” Chase turned back to Andrea Greenaway. “Could it
have been a crime of passion, do you think?”
“Maybe. That blow to her face would have taken some
strength. And it doesn’t look like a professional job, that’s for sure.”
“How do you mean?”
Greenaway shrugged. “Well, the bruising around the neck
looks pretty clumsy, for one thing. If she hadn’t been handcuffed to the bed
she could probably have got up and walked away.”
“Being smashed in the face with a brick probably didn’t
help, either.”
She nodded gravely. “True, Al. Quite true.”
Chase turned back to Blackaby. “Can you get those cuffs off
her, please,” he asked.
“What about Scene of Crime?” Blackaby
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